


Belleteyn

by Eggspert



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, Tastefully bloodied and disheveled, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Whump, and there was only one bed, idk i'll add tags as i think of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eggspert/pseuds/Eggspert
Summary: "A young woman, forcefully dragging her beau along, squeals something about dancing and food at Hierarch Square.'Typical Jaskier,' he thinks darkly, 'of course he’d demand I come to the biggest city in Redania during fucking Belleteyn.'"Summary:It'd been months since they'd last seen each other, but then one day Geralt receives a panicked letter from Jaskier. Naturally, he comes to the rescue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 175





	Belleteyn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rambunctiousragamuffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rambunctiousragamuffin/gifts).



> This fic is dedicated to rambunctiousragamuffin: a good writer, and a better friend

After so many weeks spent in the wilderness, occasionally stopping in remote villages to take on what paltry contracts they offered—ghoul dens and the occasional nest of spiders—it’s jarring to step foot in a bustling metropolis like Novigrad. The usual stench of piss, beer, and horseshit that clings to the city is only magnified by the reeking bodies packed into the streets like tinned saltfish. Bonfire smoke fills the air, prickling at the insides of his nose. Banners and lanterns bob in the warm breeze, strung between houses. The clamor of tambourines, strumming of lutes, and jovial accompaniment of bawdy ballads float overhead, doing nothing to alleviate the pounding in Geralt’s skull. A young woman, forcefully dragging her beau along, squeals something about dancing and food at Hierarch Square. _Typical Jaskier_ , he thinks darkly, _of course he’d demand I come to the biggest city in Redania during fucking_ Belleteyn _._

He shoulders his way through the stifling crowd, stepping on more than a few toes. One man whirls around to deliver a sloppy drink-addled punch to Geralt’s face. It never finds its mark, halted midswing by a firm grip. Upon seeing unnatural golden eyes peering out from beneath a hood, the stranger pales. “W-witcher! You’re a—witcher!” 

White teeth flash in a toothy grin. “Careful now,” Geralt pats him on the shoulder as he brushes past, “don’t strain yourself on my account.” The man stands there gaping like a fool as he departs, wondering if perhaps he ought to inform the guards. _No_ , he decides with a shudder, _best not to cross shifty types like that unless you’re lookin’ to lose your head._

\--- 

The back door of the Rosemary and Thyme had been left ajar; light spills out onto the street. _That’s odd. He would never be so careless with the Rosemary._ Geralt’s hand finds the hilt of his blade. _Knowing Jaskier, he’s gotten on the wrong side of a cuckolded husband and he’ll need rescuing. Again._ He steps up to the threshold expecting the worst, but he’s brought up short by the sight of Jaskier with his lute, serenading the sizeable audience that’s gathered around. Silently slipping inside, Geralt shuts the door behind him and picks a spot on the wall to lean on, watching Jaskier in a way that he thinks is subtly protective. (It isn’t. Most would say it was an overtly menacing way to watch anyone. Jaskier would say it was unspeakably alluring.) In fact, it is due to Geralt’s protective-yet-alluringly-menacing presence that the Rosemary soon finds itself conspicuously devoid of customers. 

Jaskier, who had noticed Geralt’s entrance immediately, and was quite proud of the incredible restraint he had exercised by not spontaneously combusting at that same moment, turns toward the witcher with arms outspread. “Geralt, my old friend! It’s been too long! What brings you to my humble tavern?” 

Geralt's eyes rake over the other man, taking in the uncertain cant of his smile. “You asked me to meet you here, bard.” He reaches into a pouch at the belt around his waist, fishing out a piece of crumpled parchment. “Seemed urgent, so I came. What pile of shit do you need digging out of this time?” 

Jaskier’s brow furrows. “Oh, it’s nothing really. You know how busy it gets around Belleteyn; there’re so many preparations to get in order, and I need to make sure the books are all—”

“Jaskier, it isn’t like you to play _down_ whatever trouble you’ve gotten yourself into. Just cut to the chase.” Geralt frowns, eyes falling to the parchment to scan the now-familiar text once again. The message, scrawled in a hasty hand, didn’t even rhyme, so Geralt had known immediately that it was serious. 

_‘Geralt, please._

_I don’t have time to explain, but I think I’m being tracked by someone dangerous. I need help. If you find it within your heart to come to my aid once more, meet me at the Rosemary and Thyme quick as you can. If I’m not there, I’m afraid they’ll already have acted. Hurry,_

_-J’_

“Ah, well,” Jaskier looks away, sheepish. “I just hadn’t expected you to come.”

 _“Jaskier,”_ the witcher growls a warning. 

“Alright! Alright,” Jaskier makes an appeasing motion with his hands. “The truth is, there’s this woman—” he purses his lips at Geralt’s derisive snort, “there’s this _woman_ who I may have been a teensy bit infatuated with. You know how it is,” he gestures vaguely.

“All too well, yes.” He ignores the twisting sensation in his gut at the mention of yet another of the minstrel’s lovers. Jaskier was free to do as he wished, after all, and it’s not like Geralt hadn’t also found comfort in the arms of strangers. 

“Hmph. As I was saying _,_ I think she must have been a sorceress or a witch or something because I keep finding these rather disturbing talismans on my doorstep: straw dolls soaked in lamb’s blood, carved stone amulets, shells painted with runes, etcetera etcetera.”

“Is that it?” Geralt frowns, eyeing the bard carefully. He notes the obsidian velvet doublet, the disheveled hair, the golden bauble on a chain hung around his neck, and the scent… _Something isn’t adding up._

Jaskier hums an affirmative. “I can show them to you if you like. I keep them upstairs in my, ah, boudoir.” He offers the witcher a cheeky smile. “Come along.” 

“Wait,” he crowds closer to Jaskier, backs him up against the bar counter, feels the heart thumping wildly in his chest like that of a cornered rabbit. “Mmm,” Geralt inhales deeply against the hollow of his throat. There’s the musk of sweat, and the citrusy tang of one of Jaskier’s collection of bath oils: orange and teakwood. _Ah. Thought so._ Beneath it all is the unmistakable stench of brimstone, of char and bloodied steel. He feels the tingle of magic on his skin. He swallows roughly, pulling back to look at the _imposter_ before him. Everything clicks into place all at once: the door to his precious tavern carelessly left open, the flighty demeanor, the vague responses, the dull clothing, the missing spark that made Jaskier, well, _Jaskier_.

“Oh, Geralt,” the imposter breathes, clutching at the witcher’s chest as if his life depends on it. “This is really why I called you here. It’s Belleteyn, after all, a celebration of fertility!” His hands creep farther up his shoulders to eventually cradle his face. “I knew you wouldn’t come if I was open about it, but the truth is I’ve been in lo—” 

Geralt claps a gloved hand over the false Jaskier’s mouth, eyes burning with ill-concealed fury. “You go too far,” The witcher’s other hand wraps around the golden chain at the bard’s neck, snapping it with a rough motion. Like wax dripping down the sides of a candle, the illusion melts away. Where Geralt’s longtime friend had stood mere moments before, now there was a greasy, angular man in obsidian robes. His eyes, no longer pleasant brown, are black pits void of all semblance of warmth or affection. Geralt instinctively grabs for his sword.

“My acting skills just aren’t what they used to be, I suppose,” the man muses, appearing utterly unaffected by the blade leveled at his throat. He picks at a nonexistent speck of dirt beneath a fingernail. “In my defense, I really _wasn’t_ expecting you so soon.” His voice is nasally and unpleasant. In all ways, he is Jaskier’s complete opposite. _How long had this charade been meant to last?_

Geralt's words take on a low, dangerous quality. “What have you done with him?” 

“You know, Geralt, you are a rather fine-looking… specimen. A bit grubby for my tastes, but I can see why the minstrel is so infatuated with you,” the stranger hums, wan mouth curling up in amusement at the witcher’s obvious disgust. “I am Fjedrik Bartosz, and if you want your pretty little songbird to make it through the night, you’ll listen to what I have to tell you very carefully. Do we have an agreement?” He extends his hand as if to shake Geralt’s.

“The only agreement I’m inclined to have at the moment is that between my sword and your spinal cord. I’ll only ask you one more time,” the gleaming blade digs deeper into the side of the man’s neck; a thin line of blood wells up and begins a slow trickling stream toward the hilt. “Where. Is. He _._ "

Fjedrik’s gaze flicks between the blade and the face of the witcher holding it. What he sees makes him wrinkle his nose disdainfully. “Oh, blast it all. I knew something like this would happen.” His dark eyes roll back into his head as he mutters a few words in elder speech. A portal sweeps into existence behind him, swirling in the middle of the tavern. 

"Run, by all means. You won’t make it far before I cut you down," Geralt promises. He shifts his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to strike. 

“Then how would you know where to look for your minstrel, hm? He really doesn’t have long to live, a few hours at most. You haven’t the time to go gallivanting across the countryside on a wild goose chase. However, I _can_ take you to him.” Fjedrik raises an expectant brow. “So, what will it be, witcher?” 

Geralt narrows his eyes. He knows a snake when he sees one, but the wizard does have a point. “Lead the way.” 

\---

They pass through the portal and arrive in a cold room with walls of mildew-covered stone; Geralt can tell by the change in the air that they’re somewhere underground. He’s disoriented—portal travel has always been unpleasant for him—so he isn’t fast enough to dodge the handful of shimmering powder suddenly flying at his face. It burns as it travels up his nose and into his lungs, but the scalding sensation quickly morphs into an intensely numb tingling. _Powdered valerian root,_ Geralt realizes, _enchanted to amplify its soporific effects._ “Why, you—” he lunges for the wizard, but the swipe of his blade misses its mark by a wide margin. "Wha—" Geralt careens sideways, flapping his arms to try and regain some of his balance. His lungs feel like they're ablaze in his chest, and black creeps dangerously into the edges of his vision. His legs give out from under him. 

“So sorry, dear fellow,” the wizard sneers, stepping neatly out of the path of Geralt’s haphazard blows. “You've forced me to improvise. You really are _quite_ bothersome.” 

“Fuck you,” Geralt grits out. His head finally hits the floor with a resounding thud. 

“Right, then,” Fjedrik’s lips press together in a thin line. “To work.”

\---

“Geralt…

“Geralt… is it really you? 

“Can you hear me? You’re not dead, right? Tell me you’re not.

“They wouldn’t… you wouldn’t be here if you were…

“Geralt, _please,_ they’re—”

\---

Geralt doesn’t know how long he’s been out for, but when he wakes he feels like someone’s jammed a red hot fire poker down his gullet. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He rolls over onto his side, breathing in through his nose, but all hopes of meditating to regain more of his energy fly out the window at the sound of clinking manacles around his wrists. The memories of the past few hours come rushing back to him all at once. _Jaskier,_ he thinks, sitting up abruptly. He’s been stripped out of most of his armor, left with just his cloth undershirt, trousers, and boots, but they’ve overlooked the vial of white honey tucked into a hidden pocket in his waistband. He maneuvers his way onto his knees, having to bend awkwardly at the waist to fish it out. Uncorking it with his teeth, he downs it quickly and relishes the cool slide of the healing concoction down his throat. He can feel it working in his lungs immediately, beginning to soothe the dull ache. 

The valerian makes sense. They must have drugged him recently in hopes of keeping him muddled and pliant, but his witcher blood is acting quickly to purge it from his system. The white honey only helps things along. The people he’s dealing with are intelligent, but not terribly knowledgeable on witcher mutations. He might be able to take advantage of this.

A door opens above him; three sets of footsteps descend the stone staircase into the cellar. Geralt settles back against the stone wall, closing his eyes to feign unconsciousness. “When was the valerian last administered?” Fjedrik, whom the witcher was quickly coming to detest, stands in front of him. “It was about an hour ago, yes? Give him another dose.” Peeking through his lashes, he sees the wizard is clothed in different robes this time: still black, but with gold embroidery around the sleeves and down the front. 

One of the guards kneels before him and peels back his lip. As he moves to deposit a fingerful of valerian paste into his mouth, Geralt’s teeth champ down mercilessly just below the first knuckle, sinking to the bone. 

“Aargh!” the guard howls, prying Geralt’s jaws open just wide enough to withdraw his mangled excuse for a finger. 

“Ah, Geralt,” the wizard greets him dryly, seemingly unfazed. “I see you’re awake.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to sleep through the party,” Geralt licks his lips, smearing the guard’s blood over his chin. He looks feral, every bit the White Wolf they say he is.

“Party, yes,” Fjedrik gestures to the guards. “Get him up; we’ve wasted enough time already. Even if he’s awake, I doubt he’ll be able to stand, much less put up a fight. Well,” he amends when the injured guard shoots him a dirty look, “any _more_ of a fight than that animalistic display of his. If I’d had it my way we would have got on with the ritual by now, but the lady insisted.” 

“Lady? Don’t tell me this was just an elaborate scheme for some noblewoman to get me out of my armor. Really, all she needed to do was ask, and—” The jibe is answered with a hard cuff to the back of the head, but the witcher has endured far worse, and he’s enjoying getting beneath the wizard’s skin. Just a little. 

“You will be _silent,”_ Fjedrik hisses. Geralt is almost pleased with the sudden appearance of a spell hindering his speech; it tells him far more than words ever could. This “lady” must hold some special significance to the wizard, and that is something that might very well be exploited.

When they haul him up, Geralt is careful to appear unsteady, unable to fully support himself. If Fjedrik believed that Geralt couldn’t stand on his own, he would be more likely to have his guard down. If it will get him to Jaskier, Geralt is more than willing to play the part of a loud—but ultimately helpless—prat.

They travel up out of what must have been some kind of cellar and through a long series of hallways, Geralt relying heavily on the guards’ support. The lack of conversation makes it that much easier for Geralt to keep track of where they’ve gone. There are a few more guards scattered through the corridors, all lazing about until Fjedrik comes into view and they make a token effort at straightening up. Geralt gets the impression that the majority of them are temporary hires: thugs and bouncers picked up off the streets. They lack discipline and loyalty and are definitely the type to run at the first sign of a storm brewing. 

Eventually, they arrive at what was clearly once a dining hall. The tables have been removed, but the benches remain, pushed up against the walls. Ensconced torches line the room, creating guttering pools of amber light. At the far end of the hall is a massive stained glass window depicting a scene of two lovers, dark and light, entwined together in a tender embrace. Beneath the window is a stone dais, upon which resides a high-backed chair upholstered in red velvet. Altogether, it comes across like a pale imitation of a castle’s throne room. 

In the mockery of a throne sits a woman in a cornflower blue dress; hair the color of burnished bronze cascades in waves over her shoulders. A black cloak is clasped at her neck with a golden sun-shaped brooch. Fjedrik can’t seem to look away from her. For a moment, Geralt wonders if she, too, is an enchantress of some kind, and the wizard is under her thrall. But as they approach, Geralt detects no foreboding hum of power, not like that which he can sense from Yennefer, Triss, Keira, or any of the other sorceresses he’s met over the years. To the side of the chair, Geralt’s armor, weapons, and a few other belongings are neatly stacked. _Hm. Convenient,_ Geralt thinks. 

The woman raises her hand, and the guard with the bloodied finger takes his cue to rudely kick the legs out from the witcher, forcing him to his knees. “Caed'mil, Geralt of Rivia,” she begins, “I am Aniela Eggebracht of Nilfgaard. I suppose you must be wondering why I’ve brought you here.” 

Geralt jerks his head pointedly in the wizard’s direction.

“Fjedrik,” the woman says sternly. “Allow him to speak.”

He sweeps into a hasty bow. “Of course, my lady. Forgive me.” With a wave of his hand, the pressure on Geralt’s throat lifts. 

“My lady,” the witcher grates out, “I _am_ wondering why you’ve brought me here, but mostly I’m wondering what Jaskier has to do with any of it. You need something killed, a person tracked down, I can do that, but this was the wrong way to go about it.”

“Oh, silly vatt'ghern,” the woman titters, “I don’t need you to _do_ anything for me. I just need _you._ Well, your body, more specifically.” 

Geralt raises a suggestive eyebrow at Fjedrik as if to say, _I told you so._ The wizard glares back at him. 

Aniela sniffs, “What I mean is: you, dear vatt'ghern, are a member of a multitude of rather prestigious inner circles. You are trusted by nobles, spymasters, and magic users alike. Truly," she purrs, "you must have the ear of the most powerful people from here to Toussaint, and that makes _you_ one of the most influential figures on the Continent.”

“So, what,” Geralt scoffs, “you want me to get you an invitation to a ball in Redania? Secure your engagement to a wealthy Temerian nobleman? I can’t help you with that.” 

Pursing her lips, the woman waves a dismissive hand, “Oh, please. I’m not after anything so trite as that. No, with you on our side, Nilfgaard could conquer the Northern Realms in a quarter of the time it might take otherwise.”

“Sorry. Witchers don’t take sides. We don’t deal in political agendas.” 

Her painted lips curl into a cat-like smile. “Does that line _actually_ work on anyone?” 

“It’s always worth a shot,” Geralt shrugs. “More importantly,” he shifts his weight to take some pressure off his knees, “what makes you think I’d help you? You’ve not exactly been a welcoming host.” 

“Oh, no. I didn’t think you’d help me. Not willingly, anyway. That’s why I needed the bard. We required his presence to fuel the doubling enchantment and lure you here.” She sighs, sounding terribly put-upon, “It was more effective than even _I_ had anticipated, thanks to the bard displaying an abnormal amount of perceptiveness. Fjedrik tells me he’d sent you a letter, and you came running like a dog to its master.” Humor dances in her glittering green eyes; she leans forward conspiratorially. “Tell me then, _vatt'ghern,_ has the infamous White Wolf finally been tamed?” 

Geralt keeps his expression schooled into careful disinterest, although it’s difficult. “You took my friend. I’m running out of patience. I’m not above killing a woman as vile as you—”

Fjedrik backhands him abruptly across the face, steel studded leather raking trenches into his flesh. “You will _not_ speak to Lady Aniela in such a way,” he practically screeches, a pulsating vein bulging out from his forehead.

“That is quite enough, Fjedrik. I haven’t the time to deal with your hysterics today. This will soon be finished,” she snaps. The wizard draws back, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy, as Aniela turns to one of the guards loitering near the door. “Show the bard in,” she says. He gives a half-hearted salute before opening up a side door, revealing two more guards holding Jaskier between them. 

He’s slumped over, only half-conscious, and they’re clearly supporting most of his weight. His hair is longer, unkempt, and dirty. Stubble lines his jaw. A gash cuts across his cheek, obviously an injury sustained within the past few hours from the look of the ink-dark bruising around his eye. The swelling looks so severe, Geralt doubts Jaskier would be able to actually open it. Blood dribbles down his chin from a freshly split lip that’s only exacerbated by the gag keeping his mouth pried open. Whatever obnoxiously vibrant jacket Jaskier had been wearing had clearly been stripped off him, the same as Geralt’s armor. His shirt is stained with blood, sweat, and other grime. The skin around his wrists has been rubbed red and raw from where he’d spent hours trying to wriggle out of rope restraints. 

"Jaskier,” Geralt croaks, low and hoarse. Jaskier's other eye flutters open, bright with the sheen of unshed tears, and locks onto him immediately. He strains forward, trying to free himself, however futilely, from the grip of the guards. His cries are muffled by the gag, but Geralt is certain he’s calling out his name.

All at once, the world settles into place around him. He becomes aware of every minute detail surrounding him: the dust motes swirling through the air, the men on either side of him with postures too relaxed for their own good, the sweat beading on the back of Fjedrik’s neck, and the woman brandishing one of Geralt's swords with a triumphant smirk on her face. As Jaskier is lowered to the ground at the foot of the stone dais, she appraises him like a bottle of fine wine just waiting to be unstoppered. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” she intones, approaching Jaskier with the blade in hand, “on this, the night of Belleteyn, a potent night for all things magical, I will take your body as my own to aid Nilfgaard’s righteous conquest of the Northern Realms. Unlike the spell we used to take on the bard's form, this will not necessitate that you be kept alive. However,” her smile is as sharp and feral as that of a blood-starved vampire, “you know the old ways. A feat of this magnitude will require a massive surge of power, and there is no source more plentiful than a mortal soul. Do not fret, my dear vatt'ghern. The minstrel’s death will be the catalyst for the advancement of the greatest nation on the Continent. Really, the two of you should be honored. Fjedrik, you may begin.” 

\---

The torches lining the hall have dimmed considerably, the flames reduced to smoldering embers. Through the glass window, the moon breaks through the clouds, pale shafts of light illuminating the scene and giving it an otherworldly quality. The wizard raises trembling hands, tilts his head back to bathe his face in the moonlight, and begins his incantation. Tendrils of sickly green energy extend from his fingers, stretching out toward Jaskier. They twine around his limbs, monstrous vines that take no heed of his struggling. Aniela approaches, wreathed in emerald flame and drunk on power. Jaskier twists around as best he can. These very well may be his last moments, and he'll spend them drinking in the sight of the friend who, if he'd been a little braver in life, might have been more than that. 

It is because of this focus that he sees the exact moment Geralt's composure vanishes, replaced by ice-cold rage and single-minded determination. He bares his teeth in a snarl, narrows his eyes, and strikes. The guards have been lax, distracted by the wizard’s light show, and Geralt has put up little physical resistance before now. So, when he suddenly leaps up, sweeping the feet out from one and pulling the sword from the other’s sheath to decapitate the both of them in an impressive economy of motion, the expressions on their dying faces are those of complete surprise. 

“No!” Aniela shrieks, deciding at that moment that even if the ritual wasn’t going to plan, even if she didn’t make it out of here alive, then by the gods, she’d take this good-for-nothing bard out with her. She lunges for Jaskier, tangling her fingers into a fistful of hair and hauling him upright. He cries out in pain, his gaze caught on the shining steel poised to strike. Geralt’s blade, an extension of the witcher himself, was going to be used to murder him. If he were feeling a touch more bardic inspiration, and also was not about to die at that very moment, he might have been able to pen a verse or two about this grand poetic irony. 

Geralt staggers toward him, decidedly _not_ thinking about penning verses or the shit sense of humor the universe seems to possess, also intent upon the tiny woman about to cut Jaskier down with his sword. _His_ sword. Every atom of his being revolts against the idea. Jaskier. Brave, _stupid_ Jaskier, has lived through far too much—and not nearly enough—to die here, to die _now_ , just out of reach. 

Without another thought, Geralt makes a shoving motion with both hands. _“Aard!”_ his voice reverberates like a shockwave, sending Jaskier and the other guards sprawling to the ground. Aniela, the intended target of the sign, is flung back into the wall behind the dais. The stone cracks on impact, as does her skull. She crumples to the ground in a heap, leaving a crimson smear in her wake. Fjedrik lets out an unearthly howl, abandoning the ritual spell in favor of letting loose a burst of raw energy. The stained glass window shatters into millions of little shards. They hover in the air for a moment, aflame under the light of the moon like incandescent nebulae. In the next instant, they’re hurtling at full speed toward the ground, which would be less of a problem if they weren’t showing an unsettling amount of favoritism toward the parts of the ground that Geralt and Jaskier were currently occupying. _“Quen,”_ Geralt sketches the shielding sign in the air around himself and Jaskier.

Once the last of the glass clatters to the tiled floor in a perfect circle around the boundaries of the Quen shield, Geralt’s attention turns to the wizard, Fjedrik. He’s frantically sorting through a ring of keys, fitting one after the other into the lock of a side door in his desperate efforts to escape. _“Yrden,”_ Geralt marks one last sign in the air, yellow eyes glinting with grim satisfaction. The wizard finds himself trapped inside the conjured circle with too few wits to put together a decent counterspell. Geralt retrieves his steel blade from where Aniela had dropped it and stalks over to the terrified Fjedrik. The wizard knows it's useless. He’d snared a wolf and thought it harmless, forgetting that even a trapped wolf has sharp claws and sharper teeth. “Look away, Jaskier,” Geralt says, loud enough to echo, weary all the same.

The wizard bares his teeth in a feral snarl. “I am not afraid, _witcher._ For now, I shall be reunited with my lady under the light of the Great Sun. Kill me. Send me to her,” he tilts his chin upward, defiant in the face of death. 

A more charitable man than Geralt might think it brave, but the marks on Jaskier’s skin are fresh, and the fear in his eyes is new and foreign, so Geralt is running rather short on _charity_ today. And so, with no decorum, he cuts the wizard’s head from his shoulders. The lifeless trunk slumps forward like a marionette with its strings all cut; the resulting silence is deafening.

Geralt doesn’t want to stick around for long in the secluded great-house. After strapping his armor back on, he finally approaches Jaskier. The bard has pulled the gag out of his mouth so it hangs loosely around his neck. He stares hard at the immobile form of Fjedrik, the dead guards on the floor stuck through with window shards like glass-quilled porcupines, and the slow ooze of blood across the tile. “Are you alright, Jaskier?” the witcher asks. “Can you walk?”

The bard, shaking himself from his stupor, nods. “Of course I can,” he snaps. It’s painful to watch him struggle to his feet, but Geralt senses its something he wants to do on his own. “See?” he gestures to himself as if that might—somehow—assuage Geralt’s worry. “I’m fit as a fiddle!” 

The witcher sets a careful, steady hand on his shoulder. He notices the soft focus of the bard’s eyes, the fact that he seems not all there. He swallows hard. “Jaskier. I’m taking you away from here, back to the Rosemary. I’ll find us a nice inn and a warm meal for tonight, hm?”

“Hm,” Jaskier hums back noncommittally. He places his own hand over Geralt’s, gripping tightly to him like he half expects him to vanish in a puff of smoke the second he lets go. “Are you really here?”

The witcher opens his mouth to deliver a smart-ass retort, but the fragile expression Jaskier’s wearing gives him pause. “Yes,” he finds himself saying instead. “I am.”

“Oh. That’s good. I’d started to think you wouldn’t come. Foolish of me,” Jaskier looks up at him, a beatific smile breaking across his face like the dawn breaking over the mountains. 

Geralt feels something strange twinge in his chest. He reaches out, slides his fingers into the bard’s tangle of hair, and brings their foreheads together. Their breaths mix in the space between them, a reminder that they are each warm and alive and capable of holding and being held. “I’ve got you, Jaskier.”

“I know,” Jaskier whispers back.

“Good.” 

They stand still for a moment. Jaskier’s grip tightens on the witcher’s arms. “Geralt?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“I think something’s wrong.” All of a sudden, his eyes roll up into the back of his head as he faints dead away. Geralt acts without thinking, catching him before he can hit the ground. 

He hooks an arm under the bard’s knees and scoops him up. He’s still breathing, but he needs tending to. Gritting his teeth, he makes his way through the halls of the house, encountering no resistance. The hired thugs must have fled during the commotion and, while Geralt would have ordinarily been more than happy to hunt them down and dispatch of them the old-fashioned way, that would involve separating himself from Jaskier. Right now that is unthinkable, so he takes his leave of the manor and approaches the gates. 

Lanterns mounted on the stone columns on either side of the entrance illuminate the paths that curve sharply off into the forest. The dirt seems equally worn in both directions, but from what Geralt can tell, most of the footprints seem to be coming from the left and headed toward the right. _There must be a town that way_. He hoists Jaskier up a little higher and sets off, finding himself surprisingly comforted by the solid weight of Jaskier’s body clutched against his chest, and the gentle puffs of breath against his neck. 

\---

After nearly an hour of walking, Geralt finds himself in Lanvald: a mid-sized town about a day’s ride from the Pontar Delta. It’s unremarkable, but not the backwater he had feared he would find. Smoke from a single bonfire burns closer to the town’s center: evidence of the Belleteyn celebration from earlier in the night. More importantly, there’s an inn right on the edge of town. It’s called the One-Eyed Mule, and it will suit Geralt’s purposes quite nicely. He strides right on up to the inn. Between the bone-white hair tied back from his face, the two swords strapped to his back, and the minstrel still steadfastly unconscious in his arms, he’s a walking spectacle. Therefore, it isn’t a surprise to him when the lively conversation of the tavern dies all at once, its patrons falling silent to gawk at him.

“Ho, there,” the bartender, a portly man sporting a magnificent red beard, greets him from behind the counter. “What brings you to my humble establishment?” 

“I need a room,” Geralt says shortly. “My friend is hurt and he needs somewhere to rest out of the elements. Once his condition improves, we’ll be on our way.”

“Your friend,” the bartender frowns at the blood on the man’s shirt and the bruising on his face, “what happened to him?” Something about his delicate features strikes a chord in his memory, although they’re difficult to place due to the swelling.

Geralt swallows, acutely aware of being under the scrutiny of dozens of the tavern’s denizens. If this goes cockeyed, he'd be royally fucked. “Bandits. They’d taken him for ransom. Roughed him up a bit.”

“Ah,” the bartender nods sympathetically. “Well, seeing as it’s Belleteyn and we’ve got visitors in from some of the surrounding villages, the Mule’s awful busy tonight.” He takes a long hard look at Geralt, watery blue eyes piercing in such a way that the witcher feels like his soul is being laid bare. Finally, the man nods to himself and pulls out a ledger book, beginning to flip through it. Like some secret signal had been issued, the tension in the room abruptly ebbs away. People resume their conversations, albeit at a more muted volume. “Oh, well, the gods do seem to be smiling upon you tonight. We’ve just one room left, and it’s yours if you’ve got the coin.” 

“How much?” Geralt asks.

“Twelve orens,” he replies. 

“Hm.” In his coin pouch, Geralt knows he’s got a mix of Novigrad crowns and Temerian orens, but now he’s got to get into his coin pouch while holding Jaskier. Sighing, he maneuvers the bard so he’s slung over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes, one hand gripping the small of his back. With one hand free, he fishes in his coin purse until he’s got twelve orens on the bar counter. “Here.” 

“Many thanks,” the bartender smiles, scooping them up. In exchange for the coin, he provides an iron key. “Excellent. That room is up the stairs, to your right, and all the way at the end of the hall. Can’t miss it. If you plan on staying tomorrow as well, I’ll need another payment by noon.”

Geralt nods, “I’ll get it to you. Don’t worry…?” 

“I’m called Matias. And you? What is your name, witcher?”

 _Dammit,_ Geralt curses internally. _I’m so close. Why are people so_ curious? “I am Geralt of Rivia,” he says quietly, eyes averted, mentally braced for the inevitable outcries of ‘freak’, ‘murderer’, or the blasted moniker that haunts him like a vengeful wraith: ‘the Butcher of Blaviken’. 

None of those things happen. Instead, the bartender—Matias—laughs, a jovial sound that comes deep from his belly. “Very funny, witcher. If you don't want to be open, I won’t press you. Just wanted a name for the ledger."

Geralt frowns, "what are you talking about?"

Gradually, Matias' grin fades. "Do you… are you…? Are you _actually_ Geralt of Rivia?" 

"Yes?" Geralt says, turning the word into a question. 

“Oh, sweet Melitele,” he breathes. “You mean that bard’s most outrageous story was the only true one? I’ll have to tell him I met you next time he comes to Lanvald on his circuit. I wonder what he’ll say… He _is_ a bit of a celebrity around here, you know, and so are you.”

“Bard? Celebrity?” Geralt grip tightens on Jaskier’s hip. 

Matias nods sagely, “Oh yes! By the name of Jaskier! Sings your praises half the time.” His voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper, “even his love ballads sound like they‘re about you. I’m surprised he’s not with you, really. From the sound of it, the two of you are practically joined at the hip!” 

“Hm, right. Joined, hip, yeah,” Geralt nods, something flopping strangely in his gut. “I’d best be going.” He turns toward the stairs, careful to keep a firm hold on Jaskier’s dead weight. 

“Run along and take care of your friend, master witcher. If you need anything, just let me know.”

Geralt tosses a tired half-smile over his shoulder, legitimately grateful for the man’s hospitality, but growing weary of the prolonged conversation. “Thank you, I will.” 

After Geralt departs, something clicks in the barkeep’s mind. The witcher’s companion _had_ looked familiar. He abruptly starts upright, thoughts racing. _Your friend… is that...?_ It was. Matias was sure, but he couldn’t ask now. The witcher had retired to his room, his friend—his bard—in tow, and there’s cleaning to be done. Best not to pry in matters of the heart anyhow. Matias chuckles to himself. _A strange Belleteyn indeed._

\---

“One bed. Of course,” Geralt grouches, laying Jaskier upon it as gently as he’s able. Now that the events of the day are behind him, he can finally do a more thorough examination of Jaskier’s condition. The bard has lost a noticeable amount of weight, although it has been nearly six months since they’d last seen each other. His breathing is shallow. Sweat beads like dew along his brow and pools in the furrow above his parted lips. His hair is soaked, layered with grease and sweat. His cheeks are flushed. Geralt presses the back of his hand against the bard’s forehead, scowling at the heat radiating from his feverish skin. 

Jaskier has fallen ill in his company before, but this time is different. It isn’t the usual case of hay fever or food poisoning; this time there’s an element of uncertainty that the witcher doesn’t know how to address. He has no idea what the bard has undergone in his time as a captive, nor does he know how long he’s been in captivity. Geralt’s best clue is the stubble along his jaw, as the bard had always been careful to remain clean-shaven during their travels. From the look of it, he’s gone about a week without using a razor. Jaskier’s letter had arrived in Vizima three weeks ago, and Geralt had ridden hard and fast to Novigrad. Maybe if Geralt had been closer, in Oxenfurt or Velen, he might have been able to keep this from happening. _This is my fault. They were after me. I could have kept him safe._

After making sure the door is locked, Geralt goes to the rickety chair and table pushed up against the opposite wall, beginning to unpack. He props his swords up, extricates himself from his armor, and lights a stubby candle with a flare of magic. Sorting through his supplies, he sets aside what he needs: a specially crafted mortar, pestle, bandages, alcohest, ribleaf, bryonia, and a glass flask. He sets to work, using the alcohest as a solvent and adding ribleaf and bryonia as needed until a pale green mixture is all that remains. It needs to be heated, but Geralt is loath to leave Jaskier alone. Holding the mortar in one hand, he breathes in, then out. _“Igni,”_ he whispers, concentrating on keeping the heat slow and constrained. In just a few minutes the mixture is brought up to a bubbling boil, so he lets up on the heat. Once it’s mostly cooled, he pours it into the flask and sets it aside for when Jaskier wakes. 

That leaves the bard himself, sprawled out on the narrow bed. Fresh blood seeps through his grimy chemise, causing the fabric to stick wetly to his skin. The jostling from the journey to Lanvald must have reopened some of the injuries he’d sustained. They need to be treated as quickly as possible to avoid infection. Sighing, Geralt props Jaskier up against the wall to relieve him of his shirt, his head lolling to the side at an awkward angle. Scrapes and bruises mottle his chest and back, but a more serious gash is carved into his side from his ribcage to just above his navel. It looks deliberate. Jagged. _Jaskier was struggling while the knife-bearer cut him. He tried to fight back, but it wasn’t enough. I should have been there. I should have_ saved _him._ Geralt’s nails dig so sharply into the calloused palms of his hands that he draws blood. He can’t feel it, not when his thoughts are suffocating him, not when he considers what might have happened if the intent had been to kill rather than to maim. 

Geralt grits his teeth and tries to concentrate on the task at hand. He douses a rag in alcohest and swipes it over any part of Jaskier’s skin that bleeds. The bard hisses a few times, eyes blinking groggily open, landing on Geralt, and sliding shut again immediately after. Once the wounds are properly cleaned, he adheres linen bandaging to them with a sticky paste. He soaks another cloth in plain water from his flask and uses it to gently wipe down Jaskier’s flushed face. He moves from the cut in his hairline to the one on his cheek, eventually reaching his parted lips. With uncharacteristic tenderness, Geralt dabs the blood away. He places one arm behind Jaskier’s back and tucks another under his knees to settle him properly on the bed once more. It would be more trouble than it’s worth to try and wrestle Jaskier’s uncooperative form back into his embroidered chemise, and Geralt is reasonably sure the bard would want to wash it before putting it back on again. He pours more water onto the cloth and wrings it out before placing it on Jaskier’s brow. Droplets run down the side of his face into his matted hair, looking almost like tears. It should help keep him cool throughout the night while he sweats out his fever. Finally, he tucks the scratchy woolen blanket at the foot of the bed up around his shoulders, deciding that any bed mites would be preferable to the fevered chills to come.

Geralt retrieves his steel sword, turns the chair so that it faces the door, and takes a seat. He snuffs out the burning candle on the table next to him, plunging the room into darkness. With his mutated eyes, he'd have the definitive advantage over anyone stupid enough to steal into their room in the middle of the night. Matias had seemed a decent sort, but Geralt had learned long ago not to trust in the seemingly good intentions of others. So, he leans the chair back against the wall, rests his blade across his knees, and descends into a deep meditative state to pass the time.

\---

When Jaskier awakens, he’s disoriented and hazy. It’s low light, either dawn or late evening. There’s crust in his eyes and a damp cloth on his head; the biting cold makes him shiver uncontrollably beneath his sorry excuse for a blanket. Geralt stands across the room, watching him intently with those achingly familiar eyes. He holds a pitcher in his hands, had been about to pour it before being distracted by Jaskier’s return to wakefulness. Now that the moment has finally come, Geralt has no idea what to say. He wants to berate him for getting into trouble _again_ , wants to crush him against his chest and not let go until next week, wants to get a bucket to vomit in because of how many thoughts in his head have to do with holding Jaskier and touching Jaskier and _kissing Jaskier_ and where the _fuck_ had all this come from? His mouth, which had been gaping like a fish out of water, snaps shut with an audible click.

 _No,_ Geralt tells himself, vehement. _Just look at the pain that being in your company has caused him. He deserves better than a washed-up old witcher with nothing to offer but a life of endless roving and uncertainty and fear._

Jaskier sits up a little, noting his state of undress with no small amount of alarm. _He and I didn’t… no… no, I would remember. Wouldn’t I? Yes, I would._ As Jaskier sits and contemplates the (increasingly probable) likelihood that a night spent in Geralt’s… company… might have been so mind-blowing that he literally had not remembered it the next day, an ill-timed movement causes a flare of pain. He pulls the blanket back to see a bandage over the place that the black-robed wizard had cut him. The events of the past week and a half come flooding back to him. _Ah._ “Geralt?”

The witcher sets the pitcher down. Slitted ochre eyes flick to meet his. They’re cautious. Guarded. “Hm?” 

Jaskier gulps. He can’t have this conversation right now, can’t talk about what's happened. It’s far too soon, and he is far too sober. Instead, he mutters, “it’s like an ice troll’s tits in here. I’m freezing.” 

“Hm.” 

_“You_ look warm,” the bard points out, a defined pout pulling at his lips.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums again, this one sounding more amused. Maybe even affectionate, if Jaskier were feeling generous. But he isn’t feeling generous. He’s feeling bloody fucking _cold_. 

Jaskier curls in on himself, turning his back to the witcher and scrunching closer to the wall. He pats the blanket behind him, extending a silent invitation. He doesn’t actually expect Geralt to accept it, but then a rough hand squeezes his shoulder gently, prompting him to flip over. 

“Here,” Geralt grunts, thrusting a flask into view, “drink this. You’ll feel better.” The small spark of hope Jaskier had felt vanishes as quickly as it had appeared. A dark green liquid sloshes around inside the flask. It looks unpleasant, but Jaskier reluctantly takes it. He pries the cork loose, eyes watering at the unexpected fumes that burn up his nostrils. 

“Tell me, will this taste as ghastly as it smells?” Jaskier gives the contents of the flask an experimental swirl. 

A small smile graces Geralt’s face. “Yes.” The corners around his eyes crinkle in that way Jaskier rarely gets to see, that way that makes Jaskier think maybe Geralt might be a teensy bit fond of him after all, and the bard thinks it’s totally and _completely_ unfair of him to weaponize it like this.

“Oh, have it your way,” Jaskier scowls, “but if I do drink this, you’re getting into bed with me and staying there until I’ve caught up on my beauty sleep. Deal?”

Geralt raises his brows incredulously. “That doesn’t sound very equitable. You get a healing potion _and_ a nap. What do I get out of it?” 

“The rapturous ecstasy of being in my company, of course,” Jaskier rolls his eyes, tossing the potion back in one go. It burns on the way down, nearly as bad as a pint of Zerrikanian spirit. Worse, perhaps, because it also tastes like he’d made a valiant effort at eating an entire flower garden. He coughs and splutters a bit before handing the empty flask back to Geralt. “I can’t _believe_ you consume those regularly. How do you even get drunk normally when _this_ is what you’re used to?”

“With great difficulty,” the witcher shrugs, taking the flask and stowing it away in his pack. When he returns, he indicates that Jaskier should shove over to make space. He does, and Geralt settles onto the bed behind him. The mattress is too narrow to comfortably accommodate two people, so Geralt remains on his side, awkwardly rigid. 

Thoroughly exasperated, Jaskier huffs, _“Geralt.”_

Geralt’s arm loops hesitantly around Jaskier’s torso, trying to avoid making contact with his injuries as best as possible. He places his hand against his bare chest. At his sharp intake of breath, Geralt tenses. “Alright, bard?”

“Never better,” he squeaks, and damn his voice because _now_ Geralt’s hand is withdrawing and he can practically _feel_ the witcher’s deep frown and furrowed brow and this won’t do at _all._ “I mean it,” Jaskier insists, voice more carefully level this time. “I’m not made of glass.” He snags the witcher’s wrist, placing the battle-roughened palm against his chest once more. It wouldn’t take a witcher’s refined senses to feel his heart pounding in his ribcage like a frightened rabbit, but regardless, Geralt doesn’t comment on it. “Less talking, more warming,” Jaskier mumbles, trying and failing to fight off a yawn. He wriggles a little in Geralt’s grip to find a more comfortable position. 

It’s been a while since Geralt had last lain in bed with a person nestled in his arms, but the fact that it’s _Jaskier,_ whose scent is as familiar and comforting to him as the mountain air of Kaer Morhen, makes for an entirely new experience. _Get ahold of yourself. He is ill and he is cold. This is nothing but the care one friend might show another. In fact, we have done more for each other in the past, so why should this matter? It doesn’t matter._ Despite his self-admonishment, Geralt finds himself pressing closer to rest his forehead against the bard’s shoulder. “Settle yourself.” 

“I _am_ settling!” Jaskier gripes, wriggling even more out of pure spite.

Geralt’s sigh is one of defeat. “Now you’re just being an ass.” 

“Why, whatever do you mean?”

“You’re smiling. Ass.”

“Your witcher senses told you that, I’d imagine,” Jaskier says, not trying very hard at all to tamp down on his shit-eating grin.

“No,” Geralt retorts dryly. “I just know you take pleasure in irritating me.” 

The bard closes his eyes. “Damn. My most carefully guarded secret. How did you find out?” 

“Just a hunch, really.” 

Snorting, Jaskier finally allows himself to relax. Even if Geralt _is_ only in his bed because the bard had strong-armed him into it, Jaskier finds it easy to pretend this could be something more. He’s fighting a losing battle against the warm breath on his skin, the heavy arm draped over his chest, and the familiar body bracketing his own. Eventually, he succumbs to the pull of the ether. Geralt follows not long after.

Neither can remember having so peaceful a slumber in a long, long while.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> uhh so this isnt done i dont think? but i think it kinda has a decent stopping point here anyhow
> 
> if you'd like, pop on over to my tumblr @eggspert and say hello!


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